


A Legacy to Live Without

by cptsdstars



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, M/M, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdstars/pseuds/cptsdstars
Summary: (It isn’t a familiar feeling. Scares the hell out of John, how much he wants to just hold Arthur. It doesn’t feel like how he feels when they’re messing around. The warmth in his chest doesn’t feel like how he feels watching Arthur lose himself against his hands deep in the woods somewhere. It’s so much deeper. It’s so much more. John’s terrified of it.)But John knows he won’t listen. Knows that if he was in Arthur’s shoes Arthur wouldn’t stop him. Knows that all he can do is follow him, let him carry out his delusion so he can catch him when he breaks.





	A Legacy to Live Without

**Author's Note:**

> Hello this is an au where John is only two years younger than Arthur because I think it’s great. Also please be mindful of the child abuse tw thanks !

For once, John finds out when Dutch does. 

It’s late and he’s sitting in Dutch’s big tent, practicing his writing by the dim candlelight when Hosea rushes in. The force of his entrance enough to cause one of the candles to flicker and John to look up quickly from where he’s writing. 

Dutch doesn’t jump, just takes his cigar out of his mouth and looks into Hosea’s worried eyes. 

John’s always wondered how they could have entire conversations without saying a word to each other. He wonders idly if he’d ever reach that point with anyone. 

Hosea interrupts the silent conversation by pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his bag, holds it warily out to Dutch. John strains his eyes to get a look at what’s on the paper before Dutch takes it in his own hands. 

“We don’t do bounties,” Dutch says plainly. 

Hosea sighs. “Look at the name.” 

Dutch pauses for a moment, then drops his cigar on the ground and steps on it. He takes a deep breath and his fist tightens around the paper. 

“Shit.”

John sits quietly, feels like the two of them have forgotten he’s even in the tent with them. 

“We have to tell him,” Hosea says, and Dutch stands to get in his face. 

“Absolutely not,” Dutch hisses, venom in his voice. “I’m not going to do that to the boy. Just let me take care of it, he doesn’t need to know.”

Hosea’s hand moves to close around Dutch’s wrist. John turns his head back to his paper. He’s lost his place. 

“He deserves to know. He’s not a child,” Hosea says quietly. 

John hears Dutch shift on his feet. “He is still a child, Hosea. I don’t want him doing something rash,” he says. Then his voice gets quieter. “I don’t want _him_ ever putting his hands on Arthur again.” 

John turns back around in his chair at that and looks up at the two men. They don’t notice him. The argument continues between their eyes. 

“What’s going on?” John asks, catching all their anger with his own eyes. 

Hosea’s jaw clenches, Dutch looks at John with an unreadable emotion and holds out the piece of paper for him to take.

John takes it carefully and holds it near the light so he can read the bolded text. 

_Escaped Prisoner: Wanted for Return_

_Lyle Morgan_

John’s gut twists and he looks back to Dutch and Hosea whose faces convey the unfair sickness John feels in his bones.

*

They end up telling him. He takes it well, or at least John thinks he does. 

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t throw nothing or threaten to kill them or anything. 

Arthur just sits still, hands shaking around the crumpled poster, staring at the picture of his father. 

“He ain’t gonna find you, boy,” Dutch says after a few moments. “We ain’t gonna let that happen.”

Arthur doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t say anything. 

Hosea steps closer, kneels down in the dirt so he can be level with Arthur’s face. Arthur won’t look away from the paper. 

“I promised we’d keep you safe,” Hosea whispers. “If the law can’t find us, he can’t find us. He ain’t never gonna find you.”

John sits across the campfire, watching Arthur shake, his eyes focused but seemingly so far away. John’s heart aches. He’s robbed banks with Arthur. He’s seen him beat a man to death. They’ve been in jail. They’ve been chased by dogs and lawmen both. He has never seen Arthur look so terrified. 

He never responds to Dutch or Hosea, and after a few minutes of them talking to him with no response, Anabelle shoves them away and rushes Arthur into his tent, leaving the awful poster laying in the dirt. 

John stays around the campfire for a while longer, watching the adults talk in hushed tones about the best way to take care of Arthur, like he’s a wounded dog and not a kid who’s entire world just came crashing down around him. 

He leaves when Dutch suggests that he and Anabelle take him into town to the saloon, let him drink his fears away like a man. 

John stops outside of his and Arthur’s shared tent. His mind replaying every time in the last few years that Arthur had told him about his father. 

The first time it came up John was thirteen. They were laying under a tree to get away from the hot summer sun. John had told Arthur how his own dad had drunk himself to death on his eighth birthday. Arthur had laughed, then apologized, admitted that he’d only laughed because his mom had died on his eighth birthday too. John had asked how and Arthur hit his boots together, refused to look over at John. 

_My pa shot her in the head._

The next time they talked about it they were a bit older, left alone in camp with Uncle, burning the end of some sticks in the campfire and drawing in the air with the smoke. John had asked how Arthur got those scars on his chin. Arthur had laughed again. 

_My pa shoved me off a wagon into a creek. Landed on some rocks and bled for a good day. I Broke a bunch of baby teeth too but those grew back._

_Your pa sounds like a piece of shit,_ John had said. 

Arthur had laughed again, _He sure was._

Then John had heard other stories. Either by overhearing Bessie and Ms. Grimshaw gossiping about how Arthur’s father had beat him half to death for losing five dollars or listening to Arthur himself explain another scar that Hosea had noticed over a game of cards. 

The last time they had talked about it was just over a year ago. 

Arthur had woken up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. John would usually mumble some comfort and reach over across the tent and pat his hand. But that time was different. 

Arthur had woken up screaming and pulling at his hair. Woke John up out of a dead sleep. John thought he was dying. He had grabbed Arthur’s hands, told him it was okay like he usually did but Arthur just kept screaming. 

He’d screamed _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ over and over again and John had no choice but to go wake up Hosea who’d ran back to the tent and comforted seventeen year-old Arthur like he was a toddler. 

It had taken ages for him to stop crying, and when he had John had asked quietly what happened. Hosea’d told him to shush but Arthur had quietly replied, 

_I thought my pa was coming to kill me._

And that was all he’d said. 

John had realized then that that was the only thing Arthur was scared of. 

When he was seventeen, it was just some horrible nightmare. But now it was real. And no one knew what to do. 

When John walked into the tent, Arthur was sitting staring at his feet quietly. He wasn’t crying but even in the dark John could tell his eyes were a betraying shade of red. 

John sits down in front of him, kicking Arthur’s feet gently with his own. Arthur doesn’t move. 

They sit for a while like that. John listens to the hushed voices of the rest of the camp, a cricket not to far away from the tent, Arthur’s soft desperate attempts to conceal his hiccups. 

After a good while, Arthur clears his throat and John looks up at him. 

“Will you…. uh—“ Arthur meets his eyes. He’s exhausted and can’t form the question he needs to. But John understands. 

He pulls his bedroll next to Arthur’s and lays down next to him. He then holds his arms out towards Arthur and flashes him a toothy grin. He hears Arthur chuckle a little before he lays down too, rests his head on John’s chest, and lets go of a shaky sigh. 

“Thanks.” Arthur mumbles. 

John kisses the top of his head and drifts off. 

He figured he’d end up waking up in the middle of the night. Either with his arm fully asleep and ready to fall off or because Arthur had a nightmare. 

The last thing he expected to wake up to was Arthur getting ready to leave. 

“What the hell are you doing?” John mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. 

Arthur stops, looks at him in the dark.

“I’m gonna go kill my pa.”

John sighs, stretches his arms over his head. 

“Not without me you ain’t.” 

——

They do leave a note. Omitted some of the big details, like what they were actually going to go do. John figured that Dutch and Hosea would figure it out anyway, but at least it would give them a head start. 

They rode in relative silence until sunrise, the only sound between their two horses was John occasionally humming. More of a comfort to himself than Arthur, but if he noticed Arthur’s shoulders relax he didn’t mention it. 

“How are we gonna find him?” John asks once the daylight is a steady stream of orange out in front of them.

Arthur doesn’t look back at him. “The poster said he was last seen up near Cedar Ridge. I reckon we go there and see what we can find.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It ain’t.”

John falls silent again, his hands ache. He wants to stop, pull Arthur off his horse, tell him this is a bad idea. He wants to steer him back to civilization, hide away in some abandoned house away from the rest of the world, kiss his cheeks until all the hurt is gone from them.

(It isn’t a familiar feeling. Scares the hell out of John, how much he wants to just hold Arthur. It doesn’t feel like how he feels when they’re messing around. The warmth in his chest doesn’t feel like how he feels watching Arthur lose himself against his hands deep in the woods somewhere. It’s so much deeper. It’s so much more. John’s terrified of it.)

But John knows he won’t listen. Knows that if he was in Arthur’s shoes Arthur wouldn’t stop him. Knows that all he can do is follow him, let him carry out his delusion so he can catch him when he breaks. 

They make it to Cedar Ridge by afternoon. It’s a small run down coal mining town more north than anything they’ve run into before. There’s a few old buildings, the main draw of the town clearly just a railroad stop on the way west towards northern California. 

John notices that riding into town that Arthur looks more like Arthur now. Confident and dangerous, anger biting at the edges of his face. 

They walk into the small saloon, Arthur orders a drink and steers them towards a table in the corner with a good view of the door. John sits down next to him and looks at his face. 

“What are we doing?” John asks. 

Arthur smiles coldly and takes a sip of his whiskey. “He’ll be here eventually.” 

John’s fine with waiting, he makes Arthur order a drink for him too, his own face still too young for any barkeep to take him seriously. They sit together and talk and things go back to normal for a while. They sit and drink and joke about how Hosea and Dutch argue. Arthur holds his finger up under his nose, pretending it’s Dutch’s big mustache and John laughs so hard he almost spits his whiskey all over the table. 

It’s nice. John likes seeing Arthur laugh. He tries his best impression of the funny way Hosea talks and Arthur snorts and punches his arm. 

They’re in the middle of making fun of Uncle when Arthur stops cold, eyes fixed on a man standing at the bar. John feels his feet go cold as he looks over at Arthur. 

“Is that him?” John mutters and Arthur nods his head. 

John can see Arthur’s hands shaking around his glass and he sets a gentle hand on his thigh. 

“You don’t gotta do this,” John whispers, “We can let the law get him.”

Arthur shakes his head and stands up slowly. John doesn’t follow. Just watches him go with dread settling deep in his heart. 

*

He doesn’t recognize him. 

He looked right at Arthur and nothing registered. 

He can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Arthur recognized him. Saw his horrible face a mile away and every nightmare every closed fist every terrible memory came flooding back. Settled in his bones like a wind chill. 

He walked up to the bar in a trance, feet carrying him in a way his mind didn’t realize. He stopped, leaning up against the bar next to his father. The only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. 

Lyle glanced up at him from his seat. Arthur froze. His own heartbeat deafening. He prayed to anyone who was listening that he didn’t question him. Then after a beat, his father looked back down at his drink. Arthur ordered another. 

He stared down into it. Sitting next to his father in a run down saloon with cheap whiskey wasn’t good for his health. He felt like he’s been running, his heart racing, his breath short. 

“I have nightmares about you still.” Arthur says, not looking up from his drink. He feels his father look up at him. 

“Excuse me?” He says. Arthur laughs. 

“I’m eighteen now. I still have nightmares about you. About Ma.”

“Arthur?” His father questions, and Arthur reaches back and punches him in the jaw. 

Lyle wastes no time, barely flinches at Arthur’s punch. Hits back harder than Arthur ever remembered. 

The rest of the saloon just watches as the two men throw fists and swears. Watches as Arthur hopelessly tries to block blow after blow to his face and stomach to no avail. Lyle hits him hard enough in the chest to break a rib and Arthur suddenly, instantly feels like he’s ten years old again. 

The feeling catches in his throat and he stumbles back, trips over a chair and hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. Before he can catch it again, his father is on top of him, hits his nose hard enough that blood spills over his fist. 

Arthur realizes too late that he can’t fight back. 

Lyle is on top of him, grinning, slamming his fist into Arthur’s face with so much force his blood mixes with his tears and he screams. 

“Stop! Please!” Arthur strains. 

“Don’t start fights you can’t finish, boy.” His father spits and Arthur helplessly thrashes against him. 

Arthur tries to think through his fear. Wonders how he can get out of this bar, wonders why the dozens of other people in the room with them aren’t doing a goddamn thing to help him. Wonders where John is. 

His father stops for a moment to catch his breath and Arthur spits some blood into his face. He sneers down at him and Arthur feels his gut twist. 

Lyle reaches his arm back to punch him again. “I should’ve killed you a long time ago, boy.” He says. 

Arthur shuts his eyes. There’s nothing else he could do. 

Then there’s a gunshot. 

Blood sprays against his face. 

When he opens his eyes his father is gone. There’s a hole in his face. He’s dead. Bloody and limp against the side of the bar. 

Arthur can see John across the room, gun still smoking, expression unreadable. 

Arthur scrambles backwards out from under his corpse of a father and stares at John. Everything in the saloon is silent and John tucks his pistol back in its holster. 

“He was gonna kill you.” John says into the silence. 

At that someone runs out of the bar to go get the sheriff and Arthur snaps back into reality. 

He stands up through the pain in his side and runs towards John, grabs his wrist and bolts out the back door. They whistle for their horses and are out of town before the sheriff probably even woke up. 

They stop on the side of the road when it’s too dark to see in front of them. Arthur practically falls off his horse, sits on his knees in the dirt and cries. 

John slides off his horse then, goes to sit down on the ground next to Arthur, holds him gently in his arms until he stops sobbing. 

Dutch and Hosea find them then, two hours later, sitting under the stars together on the road while their horses graze not too far away. 

They’re not upset with them.


End file.
